


7.06: Over the Well-Fought Field: Extra Scene

by idlesuperstar



Series: The Crooked Roads [7]
Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 09:51:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlesuperstar/pseuds/idlesuperstar
Summary: He promised himself ‘later’. And now it is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is just an unashamed PWP. All smut, no excuses. It fits after 7:06 - I could have tagged it onto the end of that but I like how that fic ends, so it's here, pretending to be a real thing all on its own. 
> 
> I don't think you need to have read all the previous fics for this to work, but you can if you like. :)
> 
> Series notes are [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/136827).

Lucas lies on his bed in the darkness, the midnight sound of the city muted beyond the window.

He promised himself ‘later’. And now it is.

His skin prickles, faintly cold even in the warmth of his room. 

It’s good. 

It makes it easy to step into the chill of the cell.

 

His hand, hot on his chest, his belly. The scratch of blanket rough against his bare arse, the dank, musty smell of the pillow; the touch of fingertips on skin the only heat. 

 

He has never lain like this in his cell before; brazenly naked, uncaring, already half-hard. Has never offered himself up like this before. 

Throat bare, skin aching to be bruised. 

There’s a heady freedom in the surrender. 

 

The familiar - dreaded -   _ longed for _ \- scrape of metal on concrete in the near-darkness, and a figure he knows better than his own reflection outlined against the brighter light from the corridor. 

His cock jerks in anticipation. 

 

Oleg closes the door quietly behind him as he moves unerringly to Lucas’ side. 

Lucas can smell stale coffee, sweat, the stuff Oleg uses in his hair, earth, the faint, day-worn remainder of deodorant; give him a lab and he could create from memory this smell that is solely Oleg. 

It floods into his blood like adrenaline. He can feel the pulse in his throat jumping against his skin. 

Oleg’s breathing is soft, but the shallowness of it betrays him. 

'Lucas - ' he murmurs, and he is startlingly close, his breath hot over Lucas’ ear. 

 

Lucas closes his eyes, feigns relaxation; fights the need to surge up, to assert dominance, even as his heart clatters in his chest. 

He is torn between wants, here; his earlier urge to fight is still in him, but stronger - more terrifying - is the desire to be taken, claimed and marked, suppliant under Oleg’s hands. 

His blood should curdle blackly with the humiliation of it, surely - 

But he is not even shamed by it. 

 

Oleg must sense the struggle because he pauses, his breath stuttering in the taut silence - waiting, thinking - the thick taste of need heavy in the air and then - 

\- the warm pads of his fingertips tracing lightly down Lucas’ sternum, the soft parts of his belly. 

A pathologist’s incision, opening him up to be plundered. 

Lucas shivers, blood humming, and can sense Oleg’s smile.

And then -  _ holy christ _ \- the same trail, but the cold brightness of a knife point. 

His legs fall wider, his head tilts back; the precious, vulnerable core of him spread out willingly for Oleg. 

 

He lies there, bowstring-taut, waiting for the next touch.

A whisper against his carotid that kicks his pulse higher.

A shivering, bone-melting trail over his inner thigh. His breath hitches, sweat breaking out.

An impossible pin-sharp touch across his balls, up the fat throb of his cock.

He’s strung out, desperate for the next touch, yet determined not to beg. Through the electricity sparking his blood he recognises these touches. They’re what he did to Oleg, before. 

It’s torment, yes, but it’s power; an acknowledgement, a balance, a reciprocality. The want hangs in the air between them. 

Oleg’s breath is shallow, rasping, impossibly loud. Lucas thrills to the sound of it.

There is nowhere to hide, here. 

And no need to.

 

Oleg tilts the tip of his knife into the soft flesh under Lucas’ jaw, holds it there. A question. 

Lucas slowly turns his head to the side, offering himself up. The knife trembles in Oleg’s hand.

Lucas is unbelievably calm, hanging in this moment. 

Waiting. 

 

Oleg growls, and the shocking sound of the knife clattering to the floor is all the warning Lucas gets before Oleg’s mouth is on his, fierce and hot, stale coffee and rasping stubble and the rough scrape of teeth. 

Lucas surges up into it, finally, glorying that Oleg was the one to break first. Thinking, as he fists a hand in Oleg’s hair, that he will be magnanimous in victory. 

And then Oleg’s full weight on him - sweet  _ christ _ how it makes him feel; pinned and caged.  _ Safe.  _

 

Oleg’s hands, his big capable hands are all over Lucas, smearing thumbprints into his ribs, his arse, his throat; his belt presses painfully into Lucas’ stomach, his shirt buttons scrape his sternum.

Lucas grabs a handful of cloth and pulls. He has never literally torn someone’s clothes off but now, now he is; Oleg swearing in russian through gritted teeth, elbows everywhere, his weight almost unbearable as he wrestles himself out of his clothes. 

Lucas shoving blindly, hardly helping, scraping nails across new-uncovered skin, pressing bruises into the flesh of Oleg’s bicep, his soft belly, the rough damp hair of his armpit. 

A thud as Oleg kicks his boots off, a brief covering of chill air as he moves away, and then the whole naked weight of him, furnace hot, fitting into every space Lucas has, skin scraping skin, cock hard against his like nothing else matters.

 

Lucas could die right now and he wouldn’t mind.

When he’s thought of all the ways Oleg might kill him, this was never one of them.

The rightness of it floods warmth into his gut, even as his elbow scrapes the rough concrete of the wall and Oleg’s breath is over-warm at his throat. 

 

He is content for some time to let Oleg set the pace, content simply to urge him closer, one hand hot in the sweat of Oleg’s nape, the other digging hard into the meat of his arse. 

Oleg’s mouth hot and messy at his jaw, his ear, breath loud and ragged, smudging lips and teeth blindly over his neck. 

Lucas rides the feel of it, of every shadowed place they touch, every soft-rough scrape of skin. Feels the hard bone of Oleg’s kneecap, the awkward scrape of shins; scrapes his nails across Oleg’s arse and feels the judder through him, along the dark sweaty slide of their cocks together, the shiver-bright heat of it.

The slide is too-rough, perfect, too much, not enough.

 

He fists a hand in Oleg’s hair again, drags his head up and kisses him; fierce and jagged, gasping their breath between them, smearing sweat and spit and the faint taste of blood. Oleg scrapes teeth along Lucas’ jaw, bright-sharp points of pain; mouths hot and wet over the hammering pulse in his neck. 

Lucas tilts his head again, cock jerking hard against Oleg’s, and Oleg bites into the flesh, sending pain and fear and lust coursing through him.

Oleg bites down again and Lucas breaks, shoves up against him, takes the rhythm over, and Oleg moans into the hot pulse of him, ragged and desperate. 

 

And Lucas wants it all. Wants to surrender and conquer. To take and be taken. Wants Oleg’s blood in his teeth and mouth on his cock. He forces himself to slacken the pace, yanks Oleg’s head back and holds his gaze; the air hums between them. 

They can fill the daylight hours with poets’ words but here, now, the unholy bond between them is tangible without a sound.

Oleg hangs over him, bruised and wrecked, knowing. His eyes are near-black, he is Lucifer poised to fall.

A breath, two breaths, drawn high and shallow, while Lucas dares not move.

Oleg nods, imperceptibly, and Lucas has him, body and tattered soul.

 

Lust surges through Lucas, and, hooking a foot behind Oleg’s knee, he flips them. His arm scrapes raw against the wall, Oleg clatters against the bed frame, and Lucas lands heavy on Oleg’s stomach.

Nothing matters.

Nothing except the hard slide of his cock against Oleg’s, the possessive weight of Oleg’s hands on his arse. 

Lucas pushes to his forearms, scraping teeth across Oleg’s ribs, his collarbone; licks a wide hot stripe up his carotid. 

Oleg whines high in his throat and Lucas holds him there, mouth hot on his pulse, waiting, waiting. 

Oleg growls, half-lust half-frustration, and Lucas grins as he bites down hard enough to bruise, feeling the blood thrumming under the skin, a counterpoint to Oleg’s breath, to the jerk of his cock.

 

It’s good, it’s unholy good, but it’s still not enough. 

He wants to break him. 

Wants to ruin him for anyone, anything else. Wants to split him stem to stern, peeling back skin and sinew, to press marks all over his individual parts until there is no inch of him left untouched, untainted. 

Wants to smudge the pain and pleasure together so that neither is enough on its own. 

Until every absence is an unbearable ache, only to be sated by Lucas’ brutal, tender touch. 

 

_ Christ _ , he cannot hold out much longer. He is torn between  wanting to draw the ache out for hours, and wanting  to drive hard and fast and mindless into the stuttering slide of Oleg’s skin. 

Oleg is trembling beneath him, head back; defiant and submissive at once. He will fight, he will yield, but will he follow?

 

Lucas slackens his pace, breathes out deliberately, calming for a moment. 

Then - for the first time - he kisses Oleg without fighting, without fierceness; kisses him slow and quiet.

Oleg breathes into it, a small, broken sound, and the softness is nearly unbearable; bright and shivering and terrible in its gentleness. Lucas almost cannot stand it.

This, he knows, this is what will ruin him.

But he knows it will ruin Oleg too. 

The balance between them, always.

 

They are barely moving, just the merest shiver of friction along their cocks, breath calming into slow kisses, the air syrupy and melting between them. 

Oleg’s fingers soft through Lucas’ hair, his palm at the base of Lucas’ spine, tethering him.

Lucas wants to speak, but there are no words that are not trite. 

There was never poetry written for this. 

‘Oleg - '  he murmurs, voice raw, and Oleg hums back; an agreement, a reassurance. 

Oleg pulls back, smooths Lucas’ hair from his forehead, looks into his eyes, steady and devilish. 

Holy christ, they will always fall together.

Oleg kisses him, firm and quick, a brief acknowledgment, and then growls ‘Come on, Lucas,  _ fuck _ me,’ and Lucas barely has time to breathe before Oleg is face down beneath him, scrabbling through his discarded clothes, pressing a battered tin of something  into Lucas’ hand. 

 

Lucas looks at him spread out, too big for the narrow bed, looks at the shadowed notches of his spine, the solid curve of his arse, the sheer bulk of him, taking up all the air in the cell, solid and real and everything he never thought he needed and his stomach jolts. 

Mouth dry, he slicks his cock, spreads a hand on Oleg’s arse for balance, pushes a slippery finger into him. 

Oleg moans, head turned to the side, eyes closed, pressing into the mattress. 

The blanket is scratchy under Lucas’ knees. He feels the ache and sting of everywhere Oleg has marked him. 

He pushes another finger in and Oleg shudders beneath him, so he digs his fingertips hard into the fleshy curve of Oleg’s arse, tries to hold his shaking breath, too close to the edge. 

And Oleg, impatient, shoves back, growling; says ‘Come  _ on,  _ Lucas,’ and Lucas breaks, finally; shoves Oleg up to his knees and fucks into him like he’s done it forever. 

 

There is no finesse, no gentleness now, and he  _ wants _ it to ache, wants both of them scraped raw, bruised and triumphant, falling together. And Oleg will never back down, he knows.

Oleg pushes back, pushes hard, spitting curses, goading between breaths, ‘Come  _ on _ \- you  _ bastard _ \- is that - all - you - can -  _ do _ \- '

Lucas wraps one hand round Oleg’s cock, shoves the other into his hair, pressing his face into the mattress. Oleg grunts at the force of it, and Lucas growls, tightens his fingers, ‘You  _ fucker _ \- ' leans harder into Oleg, ‘- you - ' thumbs the head of his cock, grinning as Oleg shakes, presses harder, ‘- I’ll fucking -  _ show -  _ you - ' scrapes fingernails along Oleg’s skull, forcing his face harder into the bed.

Oleg’s breath is scratchy, his curses muffled, pinned between Lucas’ hands and cock, and Lucas can only whine between harsh breaths, lost to the hot tight clench of Oleg’s arse and the fierce solid fight of him and the desperate sounds he’s struggling to make. 

 

This cannot last, this sweet perfect purgatory, nothing but heat and sweat and fire; the teetering weightlessness before the fall. 

They are bound together, blood and muscle, twisted hell-dark to one purpose; no thought, no delicacy, just instinct. 

Lucas has never fucked someone so hard and still needed more. Oleg matches him, challenging, taunting; he’s impossible; defiant beneath him. 

Lucas speeds his hand on Oleg’s cock, arm aching with it, leans more heavily onto him, stuttering out of rhythm with his own thrusts until Oleg shoves up and back, bracing one-armed against the bed, and clasps his hand hot and tight over Lucas’, urging him harder, faster.

Lucas shifts his weight, plasters himself along Oleg’s back, wraps an arm round his throat in a headlock that makes Oleg's whole body jolt. It makes Lucas squeeze tighter, lean more heavily. Oleg bears it somehow, muscles straining in his arm, and Lucas uses the leverage to fuck into him harder, Oleg’s choking gasps for air driving him, screaming through his blood; and then the shuddering jerk of Oleg’s cock in his hand, the thready, low wail he lets out, the spasming clench of his arse, tilts Lucas over the edge and they are falling hellwards, burning and choking and bruised, warped together, damned, unrepentant.

  
  


~ ~ ~

 

Lucas slumps, hand falling dead-weight from where he’s been grasping the headboard, legs slackening, shiver-twitching with aftershocks, heaving air into his lungs. 

He rubs a hand across his eyes and laughs, shaky and weak, stretches his cramped fingers, sprawls boneless and sated across the soft worn fabric of his duvet.

Christ, he should do this more often. He feels like all his strings have been cut, like he’s just shot up, and it is  _ glorious. _

 

Eventually he fists a handful of tissues and mops up the mess of spunk and lube from his stomach, drops it uncaringly near the bin. Gets to his feet on still-shaky legs, and pads naked into the bathroom to start a bath.

The flat is not all he could want but there is instant hot water and a bathtub that is actually big enough for him. These are things he might have betrayed his country for, in Lubyanka.

 

He scrubs a hand through his hair and leaves the water running, wanders through to the kitchen. 

There is Zubrowka in the freezer, and he pours himself half a glass, bottle sticking to his warm fingers. 

He takes a sip, blissful, honey-sweet, a million miles from the cornershop vodka of his teens, the watered-down paintstripper of a hundred dodgy Moscow bars. 

It melts through him, mellow and slow, perfect.

London is muted, peaceful through his kitchen window. If he stands at the right angle, he can just see the lights on the Eye. 

What would Blake have made of this version of his city? Did his visions include the myriad wonders of the future, or would he still see the chains and poverty?

A little of both, Lucas thinks. And he would see the people, and the life in them. 

 

He wanders back into the bathroom, turns off the tap, and sinks up to his chin in the water, sipping his vodka. 

He feels syrup-slow, drowsy and mellow; the heat of the water, the looseness of his limbs, the warmth of the alcohol, the quietness of his mind. 

He thinks of Oleg, half-way across the world, wonders if he is listening to the sounds of his city and thinking of another, further city. Of Lucas.

_ Hand in hand in a violent life _

And he smiles sleepily to himself, because he knows, knows with the bone-deep certainty of the months,  _ years _ , between them, that Oleg is thinking, again,  _ always _ , of Lucas. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [jennytheshipper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennytheshipper/pseuds/Jennytheshipper) did a great beta on this, I twiddled with it a bit after she'd done, so any misplaced limbs are all my fault. 
> 
> I wrote this, really, because I was trying to get back into the fic and this seemed like a good way to do it. :D It feels a bit indulgent, but I've not really given Lucas many chances for a proper wank fantasy up til now, so I thought he deserved a bit of special time. Also, he deserves the best vodka. Zubrowka ftw.


End file.
